


If & When

by RAW_SYNTH3TICA



Category: Fury (2014)
Genre: Cussing, Developing Friendships, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Military Homophobia, Military Ranks, Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Physical Abuse, Possibly Pre-Slash, Possibly Unrequited Love, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Romantic Friendship, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3241289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RAW_SYNTH3TICA/pseuds/RAW_SYNTH3TICA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After finding out why/how Sergeant Collier was given the nickname 'Wardaddy', Norman becomes a single-minded mess & tries coping with what he just learned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If & When

**Author's Note:**

  * For [STAILS565](https://archiveofourown.org/users/STAILS565/gifts).



> ALL IS FICTIONAL & NOT MINE. 
> 
> for my best bro STAILS565

They had been stewing in their own man-juices in the rolling crockpot known as ‘Fury’, it had been hours of hard squinting and riding along the uneventful roads with cramped legs and tension-taut spines, a case of the itchy-finger was all any man could hope for if boredom was already the liner job they could accomplish, aside from the knock-knock-jokes and the jibes from each team leader using the radios for conversations bordering on insulting. The air was thick, still, like steel death. It breathed nearly-solid exhaust fumes, it was soundless as the silenced sharpshooter's bullet, it left alone the dead and fed on the living, it was almost living like a spreading disease, it's painful cyst infecting everyone into a half-alive shell-shocked future bed-occupant. Skyward, came the thunder and white trails of the Allied flyboys, buzzing around mounds of smoke where unseen fires burned cities to ash, reducing towns and farms until only skeletons of buildings remained like a whole cemetery of blackened bones, each holding a memory of screams and the pungent balmy smell of rot and burning human fat. 

Losing focus in his right eye and the skin of his pinched left eye gradually began to wear on Norman’s nerves, he tried taking deep breaths to loosen some of the tension in his folded lungs or wetting his lips in case he accumulated dirt from the road, he barely focused in on the current topic Sergeant was explaining into the radio as a rattling silence settled in through the empty airwaves, “…Why? So I can see the gobsmacked stupid on his face while I fuck that sonnuva bitch in front of the entire Reichstag! He’ll surrender and thank me for the quickie, too.” 

“Jerries wouldn’t be too pleased of your talk about fuckin their leader, Sarge,” Travis chuckled at the sound of airborne dogfighters as each man silently acknowledged the aviation forces, “Hear 'em boys? Like flies on shit they're circling 'em fuckers.”

“Yeah,” Sergeant smiled through the remainder of his Lucky Strike, he squinted through the thin slit which served as a window, catching sight of a group of gray gunners and a dusty brown military transport plane, some of the gunners most likely got bored and began doing stunts in the air waiting for the transport to pick a landing spot, right until an ear-shattering boom resounded from the left of their trail, “It's 'nother beautiful day in hell, too.”

Norman visibly shuddered, closing his eyes for a moment before being snapped out of the terrifying thoughtlessness by a quick, “Look alive, hermano! Pinche assholes're really biting!”

“Ellison, open your fuckin eyes or I'll cut off your pretty little lids and tape them to the back of your ears!” Sergeant shouted, again causing Norman another lurch forward in his stiff seat, he squeezed himself tight into the crevice of Fury and shook the shivers out of his fingers as he placed his right finger on the trigger.

Before any shots could be fired, one of the planes dipped low and dropped an improvised contraption that blew the opposing forces out of their hiding spaces, scattering the troops and making Fury's job easier, they made short work mowing down the guerrilla scout troops until they were reduced to shattered bags of chopped bodies littering about the countryside. Rather than playing six little victims in a rolling tin can, Sergeant Collier rallied his six 'Sons of Liberty' as he checked perimeter, finding that they were at the rendezvous point with four tanks in their moving convoy, he called a stop and investigated the deserted area, they made quick work of the wounded soldiers by issuing them one bullet to the head and a permanent discharge from life. Only Norman held back, unable to pull the trigger point blank on a soldier groaning in pain and writhing on the floor from an incurable shredded limb or their intestines being replaced by shrapnel, his stomach again tightened, the emptiness in his guts replaced by snakes fighting against his stomach lining, swimming in his acids and finally up through his throat. 

“Great fuckin ‘merican you are, pussy!” Travis hooted as he blew two slugs into the downed soldier’s neck, bleeding the man through his dust-grey uniform, he reached down and plucked a swastika pin from the stained lapel, pinning it unto Norman’s breast pocket, again causing Norman to heave up a mouthful of bile and day-old bread, “Quit bein’ so dramatic, he’s dead, shit-head.” 

Sergeant strode up to Norman, taking the private’s head in his left hand and hefting his dirtied mouth from the ground, he growled flatly, “I thought we got something clear, Norman. I thought we had an understanding that Fritz here is the Enemy and the only way to keep Fritz from killing You along with Us is by Killing Him First.” 

“I’m sorry-” he coughed against the hold his Sergeant had on his neck, he stumbled backwards as he was pushed back and before he could trip, his Sergeant pulled back and socked him as he was mumbling belatedly, “Sarge, I’m sorr-” 

“I don’t want your fucking apologies, Norman. ‘Sorry’ never made dead men come back to life or put the bullet back in Fritz’s gun-!” Sergeant pulled him off the floor, grabbing him by his uniform and whipping him around as if to ingrain the words into his head, terrified beyond all sense he only managed to stare wide-eyed at his Sergeant’s face twisted in a rage, he shut his eyes against the swift backhand which seemed as if to dislocate his head from his spine and drill a pounding headache into the side of his face, “And it sure as fuckin hell won’t save your life when your company’s fighting for that last breath!” 

He squinted through his blurry eyes, being that the harsh dreary countryside light hurt to take in after having his head popped off and screwed back on, his ragged breaths wheezed out through his bloodied mouth, and again came the clenching shaking of his body, Norman sloppily wiped his chin with the back of his hand as Sergeant continued to question him, “Are you goin to get us killed, Norman? Or am I gonna have to write an apology to your family because their fuckup baby boy had no use in my gunnery against Hitler’s spawn?” 

“N-no, sir,” he answered quickly, the hands suddenly dropped him like a burning coal as he stood on his own two shaky legs and sucked the blood back into his overcrowded mouth, “I can perform my duty, Sarge.” 

“Whenever you’re done pissing yourself, I expect you all to get back in Fury and keep lookout,” Sergeant stated to the chagrin of Travis, Swan and Garcia, they slowly ambled back into the tank, each hesitating or ambling at a snail’s pace from the open field, each passing their new crewmate a death-glare for shortening their time uncramping in the bloodied meadows; Norman hung back without paying the three royally-pissed men a mind, his eyes never leaving Sergeant Collier’s form as their commanding officer strode with purpose to an accompanying Jeep, he let out an exhausted sigh and flung himself over Fury’s footholds, once in Fury, the four each pulled out a small ration of either crackers, potted meat or a cigarette between sips of whiskey. 

“Does he hate me or something?” Norman asked finally, breaking the silence as he nibbled absently on a floured biscuit; he noticed since his first report to duty as Fury’s gunner that he was never given a rest from all the guys’ harassing, what bothered him the most was his Sergeant’s heavy involvement with either openly threatening him or the outright dogging, he uneasily swallowed the rest of the biscuit, “What did I do wrong?” 

“You got born’d,” Travis drawled, taking a swig of whiskey over a can of potted meat. 

“You joined the war,” Garcia added while munching on a handful of salted crackers and squinting through the slit opening in Fury. 

“Sarge? Sarge hates weak candy-asses equally. You just happen to be a special case,” Swan stated after puffing on a Lucky Strike and slapping his bible shut, he leaned over the low-clearance hull and said to Norman, “We all had it bad when we were assigned to Fury, we got the shit beat out of us so we could bleed true red-white-and-blue. We never walked away from Fury without a licking from Sarge. It’s why he calls us his family, because we could stand up to him and take a hit.” 

“Still, I feel like he’s giving me shit for being here,” Norman let out a huff, he winced as his tongue brushed the bruise on his inner cheek and the split of the nearly-healed cut on his lower lip, spitting out a sour wad of blood, he asked, “Did I cross some boundary here?” 

“Nearly getting us killed,” Swan piped up from behind the periscope. 

“Fuckin the convoy by pullin a full-stop,” Garcia answered, chewing another cracker and washing down with a whiskey. 

“Sarge and our last gunner were close,” Travis said after offering a half-hearted shrug.

“Like brothers?” Norman questioned, feeling the slightest prick of sympathy for his Sergeant, because the man Never showed anything other than equal doses of restraint and anger while he had known him for the short duration he was assigned to Fury. 

“You poor motherfuckin pee-wee-” Travis hooted through the lit cigarette after blowing out the match. 

“Shut up, Coon-ass,” Swan hissed, taking a hand off the periscope to swat Travis with, he veered in another direction after catching Travis on the elbow, “You shut your fuckin inbred snoop-mouth. It’s not the boy’s concern. We said we’d be quiet about this.” 

“What isn’t my ‘business’?” before Norman could wonder why the three kept a secret, he turned around in his station and paid all his uneasy attention to Travis whom chortled at his obvious wonder, he gulped at the malice in his crewmate’s leering eyes. 

Travis settled down and leaned toward Norman, stretching the moment and laying down the tension thick, he felt his mouth go dry as Travis grumbled as if asking about the odds of a racing horse, “You wanna know how Sarge got his name, peckerwood?” 

“Shut the fuck Up, Coon-ass!” Garcia and Swan both shouted and threw their wads of garbage at Travis, it did no good silencing him as he continued unfazed. 

“Them two men was sadomizers,” Travis hissed through grit teeth, Norman’s eyes widened as his breath caught in his throat – he had never heard such talk about Their own men, Allied men, American men pushing their sausages into the caboose end – and before he could wrap his mind around the provided notion, Travis kept talking, “That dead man that used to sit in your seat fucked Sarge on the dick, and he Loved it! He loved slobbering on Sarge’s cock, he used to keep his ass wet by putting grease up his asshole so during every stop they could fuck in the forest, the field, the camp, in fuckin Fury for Christ’s sakes while we ate and socialized outside. The dead asshole used to cry out ‘Wardaddy, Wardaddy, Wardaddy!’ whenever they fucked like pigs in the mud.” 

“Now you’ve done it,” Swan shook his head in defeat, “Now, you’ve done it, Coon-ass.” 

Garcia, having the same air as Swan, threw one last ball of trash at Travis, he said, “He knows.” 

“What does Norman know?” came a voice from up top, there stood Sergeant Collier peeking through the open breach, glancing from one guilty face to the other as each eye was unable to hold his gaze, except for Norman whom sat stock-still and looked like he was about to piss himself all over again, he lifted one leg after the other into Fury’s hull, sitting at the head and examining his squad, “Don’t play chicken-shit with me, boys. I go out to plan our transport and you’re all in here gossiping like a bunch of frustrated old ninnies bitching about your butch-lezz mother-in-law when I expect all-a You to stay focused. Now, tell me what you told Norman.” 

“We told Norman…” Swan trailed off, glancing from Travis to Garcia to Norman and finally back to Sergeant Collier whom glared at him through slit eyes and set jaws, “We told Norman that if he doesn’t get his shit together – we’ll give him what-for in Hell.” 

“Hm!” Sergeant Collier nodded, the squad leaned back expecting their Sergeant to say more but let out a collective relived gasp as he settled into the seat, pulled on the radio headset and ordered, “Carry on. We’re an hour from the next village where we’re refueling and resupplying, so pull your heads outta your asses and let’s get moving.” 

The rest of the ride was a blur to Norman, the only thing he could think about was If their Sergeant was close to the anonymous blood and body he scrubbed from Fury’s hull, he knew if tables were turned that he himself would be devastated if…it already happened, he realized with a start, back a day or so ago, but the pain was still fresh and like a dull ache in his chest. Sergeant’s voice made him twitch even when he was not being spoken to or given an order, the paranoia of being in the same tank as a ‘sadomizer’ felt more terrifying than being groped by a regular ‘queer’; One, Collier could easily smack the mouth off of a smart-alec or blow the poor bastard to kingdom come, Two, Collier was never in a ‘good’ mood, Three, there was a reason for the vast collection of Collier’s scars and none of them came from kitchen accidents. Before the sun went down, the convoy arrived at a small village littered with dim lights, lines of tents, and several farms encircling a group of shops, they each were lent a barn to park their vehicles within, Norman itched with nerves to get himself out of Fury as they parked inside a hollowed-out cowshed, he was in the slightest disgusted, full-tilt intimidated and shy as hell for what he had learned hours prior of Sergeant Collier and the name ‘Wardaddy’, he was overwhelmed and embarrassed for feeling so obviously worried over the admittedly-colorful legacy his station in Fury held. 

Pouring a river of sweat and essentially ready to pass out cold from the rushing thoughts in his head, he flew out of Fury before he could be dismissed by their Sergeant, he threw the cowshed’s doors open and took off straight for where ever there was no Collier and ‘Wardaddy’ in the same sentence, Norman knew he was being a coward not facing his superior officer with both respect and duty in mind, but he felt as gangly, scraggly, mangy, ugly and awkward for competing against a dead officer for the kind of attention he convinced himself that he did not need. 

At times, Sergeant Collier could be a true friend, and the rare shine of that particular side stung Norman in his pride, he paced the muddy inner fence of a chicken coop trying to solidify to himself that he was Not jealous of a dead man, that he did not need his ass fucked in order to gain friendship from his Sergeant, all in vain, he slapped himself on the head as if to quell the rage building in his chest, he found only the bitter stab of envy the more he said to himself, “Norman Ellison, you stupid fuck! You already got all you need and already have all you have! It’s trouble to be talking bad of the deceased!” 

“Hermano,” Garcia tapped on Norman’s shoulder and informed, “Sarge hasn’t dismissed you.” 

“Okay,” he mumbled, Norman made no quick movement as he meandered to the cowshed, more afraid of than Sergeant’s explosive temper, he felt more ashamed of his cowardice than anything for not facing his commanding officer, the door creaked open as the nerves got the better of him, rummaging through his pockets for a stick of gum or a pack of rationed cigarettes, he quickly ambled into Fury while the coast was clear of his Sergeant – he found nothing beneath his seat, as he turned around, at the opening leaned Sergeant Collier with his tin of chewing gum in hand, he steeled himself and asked nervously, “You wanted to see me, Sarge?” 

“Come on out, son. Don’t be shy,” came Sergeant’s reply, he slowly crawled up the raised hull over the seat set below Fury’s breach, peering through the circlet of light came his Sergeant’s unreadable expression with lips savoring the burn of a Lucky Strike, after exhaling, Sergeant Collier said quietly, “About the assistant driver: it’s true. Every word that Travis said was true.” 

“You didn’t need to tell me, Sarge,” Norman stood over the seat, his feet finding the footholds as he lifted himself out one leg at a time, the listless side glance his commanding officer treated him along with a small square of parchment paper wrapping an item, his hands shook as he inched his hand forward and took the offered item, standing on the leveled armor of Fury on the opposite side of his Sergeant, he spoke nearly at a crawling stutter which he fought to hide, “It really isn’t none of my business. Sarge, none of the men meant you any harm.” 

“The men don’t worry me, they only fear for my sake not because they interest me. Swan, Garcia and Travis tried protecting myself from the truth-” Sergeant Collier took a long drag from the glowing Lucky Strike, Norman unwrapped a rare cookie biscuit and began nibbling at the mildly sugary edges, the taste itself was enough to bring him to his knees, yet if times had been simpler, he would have melted to the floor and swallowed the cookie in one breath; only the presence of his Sergeant kept him sober and upright as the next few words made him nearly choke, “He was an army whore, son, and the rumor’s been bothering you. I can tell. Garcia was all over the road like a drunk and you didn’t try once to correct our position, you were thinking way out there about a man you had to wipe from Fury with your own two hands.” 

“Sarge, permission to ask you a question?” he forced himself to swallow the stray cookie crumbs, stuffing the remainder in his pocket, Sergeant’s eyes met his own after giving a nod, Norman asked a small query which bothered him for hours since being let in on the secret, not meaning to be callous or prying, “Are you sad? About his passing?” 

“What good would sadness do me, son? There’s no use for crying where we’re headed,” Sergeant answered, and still, beneath his usually stony stoic expression lay a miniscule flaw, a crack so small and indistinguishable that Norman had nearly missed the tiny tic, in a face scarred and hard as concrete – he stood in awe as Sergeant looked him in the eye behind the veil of smoke, an air of loss was what Norman read with sentiments to match, “I shed a tear and carried on the same way a soldier should.” 

“Sarge?” after a minute of reordering his rushing thoughts, Norman asked another question as quietly as an uneasy exhale, “You don’t ever think what he would do if You died?” 

Something just then changed, like a bridge snapping in half one support at a time and falling away emptily to the ground of transformation, Norman sensed it and knew it was too late as his Sergeant gripped him by the uniform collar and twisted the cloth against his skin, his stomach dropped to the floor as his commanding officer whispered in a low gravelly tone free of malice, “What would You do if I sang saint Peter’s praises, Norman?” 

Tongue caught in a tangle and felt too numb against his teeth, he gripped at the corded cable wire-like wrists where raw strength interrupted veins below the tough scarred skin, he held his Sergeant’s gaze burning a blue fire within the dim rickety cowshed, he only saw his commanding officer’s lips move in the finite stillness and silence, “Tell me.” 

His palms began to sweat atop his Sergeant’s wrists, he could no longer deny his fear of the man in charge of his life, no say over what Sergeant Collier would do to him could be stopped, it was no longer a matter of how or when he would replace the dead soldier still attached to his commanding officer’s conscience, the matter of how and when he would die at his Sergeant’s hands became the center of his panic, unable to answer, Norman could only breathe helplessly as his commanding officer gave him a jolting shake and questioned, “What would you do?” 

“Would you cry for me the same way you cried for Emma?” his mind stopped thinking, every sound seemed far away when all he could remember was a sky-shattering boom and beautiful young Emma dead beneath a heap of rubble, all he could ponder in the aftermath was when he would see her again and if she would accept his marriage proposal after the war ended, it was a small dream but it was his wish; he must have looked like he was already crying or ready to bawl, Sergeant Collier’s face softened, he flinched as a calloused hand brushed a bitter drop from his cheek and grumbled, “Is a dirty bastard motherfucker like me worth your tears?” 

Norman wrapped his fingers around his Sergeant’s leather-like palm, he hated feeling unable to control his emotions and guard himself from suffering his humanity more than his should, all he could boast was an innocent emotional honesty whereas most in the American army lacked, though most of his morals on life were broken like a religious taboo by his Sergeant, he was granted a terrifyingly sharp sense of urgency which contrasted with the peaceful atmosphere, Sergeant Collier leaned in close until they stood nose-to-nose and whispered, “Would you cuss my corpse for dying?” 

“S-Sarge-!” he sounded pathetic to himself, Norman took a step back only to be yanked forward two more paces and toe-to-toe with his superior officer, he could only implore weakly, “Please-!” 

His Sergeant simply held him closer, he stood in his Sergeant’s shadow and his commanding officer in turn looked down into his eyes, the strong smell of burned Lucky Strikes, whiskey vapors and gunpowder residue invaded his senses along with an angry heat from beneath his Sergeant’s uniform, he completely forgot all about the dead soldier and could only pull blanks for the question asked of him, “Tell me, Norman.” 

“Wardaddy-I don’t hate you, it’s beyond me-,” finally able to find his voice, he stared beyond the steel of his Sergeant’s seemingly-detached expression, he again saw the instantaneous flash of sympathy as he said flatly, “I hate Hitler more.” 

“That’s my boy,” Sergeant wrapped both arms around his body and squeezed hard; astonished beyond words, Norman craned his neck to see exactly how his commanding officer looked when impressed, or the semblance of being happily amazed, a slight smile graced his Sergeant’s mouth and a pair of dimples appear at each corner, he held his breath as a large palm came up and ruffled his hair, he heard a tone not quite warm but truthful all the same, “You’re my boy, Norman.” 

“Thank you, Sarge,” Norman whispered. 

Norman no longer cared if he was ‘replacing’ the dead assistant driver as long as he could continue to unwrap Sergeant ‘Wardaddy’ Collier the same way as he unwrapped every gift, he forgot his shame and could only Want to be his commanding officer’s object of release, as ugly as it was to admit to himself: he did not mind being that he respected Sergeant Don ‘Wardaddy’ Collier enough that he felt no shame whether it was giving himself or maybe eventually falling in…

Love?

**Author's Note:**

> this would have been an awkward way to start a smut, so it's just an idea for now...& this is because STAILS had written me some (okay, A Lot!) of giftfics...so here's you are STAILS~! & thank you for everything


End file.
